Chapter Text
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Spring arrived in Lumiere with all the breathless anticipation built up by the long grey days of winter. Pinkening buds swelled with sweet sap on the tree-lined boulevards, and small birds flitted frantically to and fro in preparation for a busy nesting season.
Down below, the houses of the well–to–do hummed with energy as they prepared for a season of their own.
It was time once more for the upper classes to return from their stately country manses to the centre of Lumieran society, the Ton. Dresses were being stitched, shirt collars were undergoing rigorous starching, and jewellery was being polished to within an inch of its life.
The cause?
The first ball of the new season was to begin this very evening, and everyone who was anyone was desperate to impress.
With one notable exception.
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Verso Dessendre stared listlessly from his apartment window, idly watching the chaos down below with the detached interest of a man who has placed no bet at the races, nor particularly enjoys looking at horses.
The noise and bustle flowed over and around him, like a smooth pebble in a stream yet unmoved by the torrent.
He watched a harried-looking Mama hurrying along the pavement, dragging her two fresh-faced daughters and their maidservant with their bags full to bursting. Every season always seemed to him like so much wasted effort for very little gain.
Verso reclined in the window seat and twisted the black buttons on his dinner jacket, the motion a soothing habit. He really should have started thinking about his own evening plans, but it promised to be so terribly dull he simply could not bring himself to.
One of the daughters suddenly dropped her bag in the street, the flimsy handle snapped and bright red ribbon spools, beads and buttons spilled out across the cobbles and into the road. The Mama scolded the daughter, and forced the long-suffering maid to pick up every last rolling bauble from the gutter while passers-by stared and tutted.
With a snap, Verso realised he had twisted one of his own buttons clean off. The loose threads dangled sadly from his chest, drawing attention to how crumpled the jacket was in the first place.
He checked his silver pocket watch, and gave a sudden start at the lateness of the hour.
"Merde. I said to Monoco I would call in to the club before the ball."
There was no time to bathe or complete his toilette. He rang the bell for his valet, who arrived sharply, and with Verso's dark grey overcoat already folded neatly over one arm.
"Ah, thank you Luc. Is the coach ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Could you ask the housekeeper if she would mend this button while I'm out? I'm afraid I've quite ruined my favourite jacket."
He shrugged off the clothing, and into the heavy overcoat. The fine charcoal-coloured serge draped well over his tall figure, accentuating his broad shoulders and buttoning down at his narrow waist.
"I will ensure it is done. Would sir care for dinner to be sent up? It is sure to be a long evening."
Verso grimaced. "There will be petit fours at the ball, and ungodly amounts of sweets — but probably nothing substantial. Hm, perhaps I shall order supper at the club, since I am already visiting."
"Very good sir."
"Don't wait up for me, Luc." He flashed a wolfish grin, dark hair loose and in some disarray.
Verso strode down from his apartment to the waiting carriage, already looking forward to the quick stop at White’s, whose varied and excellent selection of high quality spirits would surely do wonders for his nerves.
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Dining at the club had made him very late arriving to the ball indeed, but Verso did not care overmuch. His good friend Monoco had been there; as usual, quick to make a mockery of Verso’s unwanted status as Society's Newest Darling, but always ready to share a glass or two.
Besides, he was on particularly good terms with the hosts of tonight’s event. Mama and Papa would easily forgive his tardiness, as long as the only male Dessendre heir showed face. It was his elder sister Clea whom he truly would have to pacify, she would have taken charge in his absence and would now resent him for it.
Verso jogged up the steps to the mansion, nodding good evening to the guests taking the air outside the front doors.
The ball was magnificent, as he had anticipated. There would be nothing less expected from the Dessendres of course, as one of the wealthiest families in Lumiere.
Outside, the party lights glowed softly from the generous windows and through the ancient wisteria, and inside the entrance hall brimmed with opulence, welcoming guests with gold leaf shimmering on almost every surface and plush purple fabrics draped decadently over everything else.
Gorgeous floral displays of fresh and dried flowers lined the corridors — fresh spring violets tied with silver ribbons, lavender sprays and scabious pincushions, golden feather grasses and twisted gnarls of driftwood painted with yellow-gold diamond patterns – Aline had most likely arranged and painted those herself.
The smell of recently beeswax-polished floors, violets and eau de parfum curled enticingly in one's nostrils, and gentle string music wafted through the open double doors.
One of the Dessendre footman recognised him, and brought out a wooden box containing a selection of masks. Looking around, Verso belatedly realised that he was the only guest barefaced; the double gin and tonics stimulating conversation he'd had at the club had pushed the thing clean out of his mind. His family had been expecting him to forget, evidently.
The mask handed to him was a sombre velvet piece with a spray of assymetric black crystals on one side which radiated like a dark star. He thought it matched his bleak mood rather well.
While the masked theme was an interesting departure from the usual overt style of these types of events, it was still a gratuitous load of nonsense and posturing which even his own family was not immune to.
While Clea had been married to a Duke for a year now and already had made their parents proud by securing the line of succession, the other two Dessendre heirs were yet to find a suitable match. Verso had been able to avoid the worst of the attention until very recently, when the local gossip writer Whistledown insisted on naming him the season's catch.
And now every single unmarried person here tonight would be after him like there was blood in the water.
Inside the main rooms, young people giggled and whispered behind elaborate masks. Verso had to grudgingly admit some of the costumes were excellent. One of the girls was a mermaid, her sheath dress all shimmering scales, topped with a scintillating mother-of-pearl mask. Another was a snow-white Swan, and three Greek Muses in a tight group had all coordinated their togas and obscure instruments. A young Roman in bronze armour—and very little else—stood straighter and squared his shoulder pauldrons in Verso's direction.
"Good evening."
He smiled tightly at them all as he walked past, cutting straight for the drinks table—he would surely need a top up to endure the rest of the evening. The guests continued giggling and making moon eyes at him despite his strained indifference. They were likely all suitors his elder sister had already primed for him. She and his mother were desperate for him to choose a partner this season, when it was absolutely the last thing he desired. He'd much prefer spending time at the gentleman's club with Monoco, or playing his grand piano, or, merde, even painting.
So if his mother insisted on him being here, he was going to do his best to get loaded. He found it was usually less unpleasant to pass these sorts of tedious social events in a dull haze, and a certain amount of liquid courage never did anyone any harm. But, before he could reach the promised oasis, his Mama stepped in to his path. Much as her mask of Zeus shimmered with lightning bolts, her narrowed eyes were also thunderous.
"Verso, there you are. You're over two hours late, yet again! You were meant to chaperone Alicia."
"I was... doing just that." He lied, giving his mother a winning grin designed to disarm. "Perhaps you simply did not recognise me in my mask?"
She sniffed and scowled. "And I do not believe that we are serving gin this evening, and yet you reek of it."
"Well, at least I'm here now." He couldn't help shuffling his feet somewhat awkwardly. "You know how I detest these things, Mother."
Her tense posture softened slightly. "This is our first time hosting the inaugural ball of the season, and we need it to go well, Verso. The head of the Painter's Council is here!" Aline gestured to an imperious woman sat up on the dais. She wore an alarmingly large hairpiece made of brushes and a palette-shaped wooden mask in a rainbow of colours. "Our family needs to reassure them that we are fit to handle the challenges of a council seat. "
"I'm sure I wasn't missed. Besides, tonight everyone is unrecognisable in their costumes — we can be anyone we want!" he quipped.
His mother eyed his tousled hair with its entirely distinctive white streaks, and then at his tight black costume which left little to the imagination.
"It is well known who you are, and that you are an unmarried and eligible bachelor. I have planned this event exceedingly carefully. Now, I would like you to go over and speak to those debutantes. On behalf of all the Mamas here. You must be seen to be actively courting attention—your very presence here implies that you are ready to rejoin Society."
"But Mother—"
"This is not up for debate. Go and speak to the debutantes. Prove to me you are ready."
There was no arguing with Mama when the reputation of the family was at stake, so Verso acquiesced to her demands, sauntering over to a group of whispering youths bedecked in floral masks who had been glancing over at him in an unsubtle manner for quite some time. He flashed them a painted on grin, the picture of roguish charm.
"My, what lovely costumes! You all look exceptional."
"Thank you, Lord Dessendre. Your disguise tonight is superb."
"Is it? And yet you recognised me immediately. What is the point of this mask if you could tell it was me?"
"The dashing silver in your hair is a dead giveaway, sir."
"Ah, yes. of course." He ran a hand through his long hair distractedly. In all the stress of the last week, he had forgotten to keep up with dying it back to black. "Perhaps I should have dyed it a more exciting colour. Maybe... purple—to match our decor?"
"How outré, Mr Dessendre!"
He smiled and laughed through a few minutes more of tediously shallow small talk, trying to play the part of interested and eager suitor. His carefully constructed mask of politeness was rapidly slipping as his fingers itched to wrap around a glass of something strong.
Verso finally found a natural pause in which to make his excuses, bowed, and left hurriedly before he said something he might have cause to regret.
It was rather difficult to connect with the darlings of the Ton since they didn't truly see him; they only saw the Dessendre fortune, the opulent manor, and the reputation his family could bestow upon their own. Their eyes looked past his own, and focused on his name only. How was he to find the suitor that his family demanded, if all the prospects induced such misery in Verso?
A glass of punch might cheer him up.
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The drinks table was blessedly quiet, as a lively dance had just begun. He drained a few of his family's best offerings, barely appreciating the immaculate presentation of the crystal glassware before moving on to the next.
"Verso! Why are you hiding yourself away back here?"
He groaned softly into his fourth glass of rum punch. The drinks table was evidently not as quiet as he had supposed.
"Hello Clea. It's good to see you back in Lumiere. Clearly, I'm trying to get drunk."
"I see it all too clearly brother. Father wishes for you to go easy on the alcohol tonight, lest you cause another scene. Remember the scandal of the summer ball at the Rousseau's?"
"...No?" He lied.
"Of course you don't." Clea rolled her eyes. "We had to call a carriage for you early, and the servants carried you out."
Verso tried for a joke. "Sounds like a perfectly amusing night to me." Even to his ears, it sounded flat.
It had in fact been a truly awful night. He had been experiencing one of his famous melancholic episodes and was in no fit state to be out socialising. Try as the Dessendres might to hide him away from Society while he recovered, he had been specifically invited by his old school friend Fredrick Rousseau. Clea was to be attending with her main suitor, the Duke of Amboise, and the family thought it best they all attend in support of her as a proposal was expected.
The overriding feeling he remembered from that day, that week even, was the ocean-deep urge to make it all stop. Memories blurred together, but he had retained some disturbing flashes. Verso recalled glass shattering — perhaps it had been a window? The smell of burning. Flames licking up a curtain. Hot blood running from his hairline, but feeling nothing. Wide eyes staring at him. His own face blurred in an ornate mirror in some long and crooked corridor — not knowing where he was, barely recognising his own bloodied face.
And then afterwards, the slow pain of his facial wounds healing, but being too ashamed to ask his family what he had done. Burn scars on his hands. Clea frowning. His hair growing back in deathly white streaks.
Clea smoothed her own perfect hair, ensuring no strand was out of place. Hopefully she had not picked up on his lapse in attention. To her, the Rousseau's had been a regrettable incident happening elsewhere, but it had derailed Verso's whole life. His history was now divided into before the Rousseau summer ball, and after.
His elder sister's mask was of a majestic scarlet bird, complete with a fierce hooked beak and red plumes trailing down her long dark hair. It suited her well. She always seemed to be watching him with a raptorial gaze.
And she was still in contact with Fredrick Rousseau, whereas Verso was not. He had not received a Christmas Card from the family last year either, which was a Very Bad Sign. His hands still shook whenever the Rousseau incident was brought up, and today was no exception.
"Myself and poor Mama had to take care of any scandalous rumours. We explained you were suddenly taken ill, although I doubt many believed it based on your prior behaviour."
Clea crossly snatched the fifth glass of punch out of Verso's shaking hands. He had been hoping she wouldn't notice that, either.
"Your reckless attitude reflects badly on our family, brother, and our little sister is still yet to find a match. I very much wish you would acknowledge this."
He rolled his eyes. "Acknowledged. I'll be on my best behaviour tonight. But of tomorrow — who can say?"
His sister switched to a more cajoling tone. "Endeavour to try, please. Perhaps there will be someone that catches your eye tonight?"
Verso scoffed. "Doubtful. "
She shrugged, and sipped on his confiscated drink. "You never know—try to enjoy yourself, Verso. Oh, this punch is quite good. I can see why you had so many."
She walked away, her steps precise. Verso shot one last yearning look at the tower of drinks, before tearing himself away. He crossed the ballroom so he wouldn't be further tempted, aware that his family were keeping a close eye on him.
A waiter passed by him with a tray of mauve sweets and he took one, the surprising bright taste of cherries erasing the lingering taste of rum.
Suddenly, small hands grabbed his shoulders from behind and he nearly choked on the bon-bon.
"Brother!"
"Alicia! How wonderful to see you!" He turned and whirled her around, his pasted-on smile turning genuine. His red-headed younger sister was his favourite person, even if she did like to sneak up on him. Somehow she had managed it in armour — her costume was a medieval knight, complete with silver chainmail, sword and a helmet with visor.
"Versooo, where have you been? I've been so dreadfully bored, the conversation is deathly dull here."
"That's unkind, Alicia." he said, even though he privately agreed.
"What? It's true! Everyone my age can speak only of marriage, the latest fashions, and the bon-bon choices Mama has made!"
Verso chuckled. "The bon-bons are delicious. They're cherry, you know."
"I don't care." She made a sound of exasperation. "No one will ever talk to me about novels, or art, or even music."
"Have you even tried?
"Well, not exactly... But I know they wouldn't care for any talk deeper than those slices of quiche over there." She pointed at some bite-sized slices carried past by another waiter.
"Those are tartes aux fromage — they aren't meant to be deep. I think they're thinner, and more crispy?"
"Hmm. Well, I suppose I shouldn't judge them for being something they are not."
Verso frowned around a sideways smile. "Are we still talking about the quiches?"
Alicia stuck her tongue out rudely at her brother.
"Stupid."
Verso reached out and tweaked her fondly on the nose.
"Mama would have a fit if she saw your face doing that. However are you going to catch a gentleman's eye when you are this irritating?"
"I could ask the same of you."
He winced. "Hmm, no, see, I actually possess the opposite problem. They will not leave me alone." Verso glanced around conspiratorially, and indeed, they were being observed by several young persons eagerly waiting for their moment to converse.
"Perhaps I simply need to be more annoying?" He said in a stage whisper.
Alicia giggled. "Not possible. Although... That young lady is brandishing her dance card at you."
"Mr Dessendre! Over here!" The young lady called, holding up a fan.
Verso pulled another pained expression. "Help me get to the alcove unmolested?" He pointed at a secluded seating area across the room. "I cannot bear another conversation, let alone a waltz."
Alicia helped him slip through the crowd of people, and then bid him farewell as she spotted her friend Sciel across the dancefloor. The woman was wearing an elaborate hat and swordswoman's costume, but Verso could easily tell who it was by the confident way she carried herself. The two of them hurried away giggling and disappeared into the crowd.
A new dance was just beginning and the musicians were tuning up their instruments. Hopefully this would help distract attention away from the eligible Dessendres skirting the edges of the ball.
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Once successfully ensconced in the relative privacy of the alcove, with hanging golden silks slightly obscuring him from the view of debutantes, Verso breathed a sign of relief.
Of course, he wasn't hiding. No. It was merely a tactical retreat.
He knew at some point he would have to show his face again, but he needed a moment to recover. Why not sit and listen to the talented string quartet that his family had no doubt paid a great deal of money for?
The couples lined up in a grid at the centre of the room, poised and elegant, and the dance began. Each pair danced a minuet, a quick stepping and delicate form. Their masks ranged from the quietly fashionable to the flamboyant, but all added to the mystery of the masquerade ball.
All eyes in the room followed the dancers, many spectators uttering little sighs. It was a beautiful spectacle. But Verso could find no joy in the lithe steps, or the affected gestures. It all seemed rather performative; short-lived butterflies showing off their colourful flapping. Rather sourly, he looked around the room for anything else to focus on.
Ah. The punch was unattended.
Perhaps, just one...
Verso furtively sidled out of the alcove, empowered by the knowledge that all eyes were not on him, for once in his life. As he neared the far side of the ballroom, a group of newcomers moved past him.
Behind them was someone else who wasn't watching the dancers. A man with wavy brown hair was staring enraptured up towards the ceiling.
Verso stopped in his tracks and followed the man's gaze — it was fixed upon the tiered crystal chandelier at the room's centre.
A shaft of pale moonlight shone through the beads from above, and the facets of the teardrop shaped crystals were illuminated orange from below by blazing candlelight.
The man's face, hidden as it was behind a full golden mask, glowed. Not just from the lighting, but from happiness. This man radiated joy — he seemed genuinely happy to be here.
Verso couldn't fathom it. He had to get closer.
The drinks table was forgotten as he started forward, admiring the man's unusual costume. It was all dark blacks and golds, some kind of replica Expedition outfit worn by the founders of Lumiere. A dashing golden band was tied to one arm with fluttering ribbons.
However, all artifice paled in comparison to the Expeditioner's smile: warm, open, guileless. The candlelight made dancing fractals in his hazel eyes.
Verso's heart abruptly ached for that smile. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be able to smile like that himself, or whether he wanted to be smiled at like that—to be the source of that radiating joy. He knew he needed to be closer though, to properly understand it.
Suddenly, another young man appeared, beating Verso to it. It was one of those terribly dull suitors, Baron Someone-or-other, and he was asking a long-winded question with great seriousness.
But Verso watched in mounting delight as the golden-masked guest made a show of fumbling for a missing dance card, which he covertly tucked beneath his black glove while the Boring Baron huffed and puffed badtemperedly.
Verso grinned, and snatched up a spare dance card from the nearest waiter as he made to interrupt their conversation.
"Ah, I believe I have found this young man's dance card. How fortuitous! But, unfortunately my name seems to be up next." He fiddled nervously with the card, suddenly doubting himself.
The young man in question raised an eyebrow at Verso, but decided to play along for reasons unknown.
"That is... true."
The Baron hmphed and shuffled off, not a bit put out, and likely no stranger to rejection.
The Expeditioner's reply had been hesitant, but smooth and honey-toned, and Verso immediately needed to know more.
"What is your name—"
"—Why did you rescue me?" They stared at each other, brown eyes steadily meeting his own pale grey.
"I wanted to know how you came to be beaming with joy at one of these events. It's positively spilling out of you. The light." Verso gestured upward at the moonlit chandelier, and then offered one hand.
The man looked down, swallowed once, and tentatively took it. His long leather expedition gloves hid a very firm grip. "You realise I was actually, um, doing fine on my own, fending off that gentleman?"
Verso nodded thoughtfully. "Did he lack the... qualities you seek?"
Not all gentlemen were open to other male partners, of course. He might be a first born son, expected by society to take a wife and continue the line. But then again, the Baron was an exceedingly dull man able to bore the trousers off anyone regardless of gender.
"Oh, well, no, but... You see, it's just I'm not looking for any kind of partner." The man was incredibly awkward, a blush rising from within the confines of the golden mask, yet on this he was firm.
Verso was completely taken aback. "You are not? Truly?"
Why else would guests willingly come to a tiresome society event like this? This whole charade existed only so that the wealthy had a suitably glamorous background against which to conduct their games and sordid intrigues.
"No."
They smiled at each other, both slightly nervous.
In the background, the gentle tones of the musicians beginning to play a waltz started up. Verso barely heard them, so intrigued was he.
The man's brown eyes darted from side to side at the other dancers, looking worried.
"Excuse me, but I am meant to be somewhere..."
"Oh, Have I offended you?" Verso was puzzled by the sudden change in tone.
"No... but—"
"Do we know each other? Would it be improper?" He stepped closer, still holding the man's hand. That really was quite a grip he had.
"No, I... ". He appeared greatly embarassed, for reasons Verso could not comprehend, until he blurted out: "I cannot dance! That is the truth of it."
"You cannot dance...? Is this a part of your character? A rugged expeditioner who cares not for dancing?" Verso laughed. “It is very amusing.”
"...You have seen through me!" The man was evidently nervous, but nonetheless his expression was teasing; his thick eyebrows drawing together in a mock frown at having been discovered. "Clearly, this is my first masquerade. What role are you playing?"
"Evidentally, that of your dancing master."
"Aha. Hm. As much as we are all pretending tonight, I believe the Ton might be bewildered by the sight of us, um, conducting dance lessons in the centre of the ballroom."
"Well, there is always the private terrace. It's much quieter." Verso grinned mischieviously. "And it has the advantage of being out of sight of my mother, who I'm currently trying to avoid."
The man's eyes flicked distractedly to the side, and Verso could have sworn he saw the slightest flash of panic.
"I will have to trust your judgement."
They hurried through the crowded rooms, passing through balconies, back rooms and smoky rooms, and out to the gardens. There, a grand pavilion wreathed in night—blooming flowers lay empty. The Expeditioner laughed as they ran hand in hand down the steps.
"Are you laughing at me?" said Verso, trying hard not to pout.
"No! No... It is all just so..." he sighed, words failing him. "It is a spectacular night."
The scent of jasmine filled the cool evening air. The moon shone clear, brighter than he'd ever seen it. It reflected on the man's golden armband, off his glossy chestnut curls, and picked out silver wires Verso hadn't noticed before which filigreed the metal of the mask. It was one of the most delicately crafted objects Verso had ever seen. He idly wondered what talented craftsman had made it,and whether they might create a piece for his own wardrobe.
To distract himself from staring at the fascinating young man, he paced the pavilion, mapping out the potential dance area with his long legs. "You are not like those other dance partners, you know. It is a relief."
"What is wrong with them?" said the man sharply.
"Well... I am only... They are..." Verso hedged, unwilling to say anything rude, but equally loathe to pay compliments to the shadows that dogged his every footstep.
"Constantly pursuing you? While I can believe that must be taxing for you, you must remember that those young people have spent their entire lives preparing for the pursuit. Hundreds of hours acquiring their talents and accomplishments, endless dressings and fittings and readying themselves, all in the hope that you might simply notice them."
Verso noted the unexpected vehemence and careful pronoun use.
"Are you not also hoping to be noticed?"
The man in the golden mask looked away. He shrugged.
"Truly?" Verso found it hard to believe.
"I am... um. Merely hoping to enjoy myself.
"Well, you seem to be. Very much." Verso paused as the young man made a wry face. "Or, not?"
"It is a lovely evening, but in truth I cannot help but feel a little out of place at a society function. Everyone is so... perfect. It's hard to measure yourself against that." The Expeditioner looked up at the roof of the pavilion, and then at his hands in their soft black gloves. He clenched both into brief fists and then stretched out long fingers and arms, examining the stitched golden details on each long sleeve.
"How can that be true?" asked Verso, intoxicated by the man's lithe but strong form, well-fitted costume and gorgeous hair back-lit by the moon. He couldn't help stepping closer.
"Perhaps I am more comfortable appreciating the, ah... details of the event than I am participating."
"Don't worry, I will not tell my mother." Verso grinned.
The man paused, digesting this slowly. He trailed one hand thoughtfully along the carved wooden balustrade. "So, this is your home... which makes you a Dessendre?"
Verso blinked stupidly. "Wh-What? You really did not know who I am?"
"Not until just now... Verso, I presume? You are just as Whistledown describes, in appearance and nature."
Verso was reeling—for once cursing how much he had had to drink earlier, for now he needed some clarity. He was rapidly having to revise many of his prior assumptions about this unusual guest.
"You know me from Whistledown, but not from society. You are at a ball, but cannot dance. And you are singularly self-possessed, but you do not feel as though you fit in." He listed, counting on his fingers with an increasingly baffled expression. "Who are you? Where did you grow up? On the Continent?"
"Here, in Lumiere." The Expeditioner quirked his lips.
"In the upper city?"
"I moved around a lot." He was enjoying being evasive.
"Well, who are your parents then?" Verso persisted.
The man cut in abruptly, "You know, you have managed to not tell me a single thing about yourself. Is that, um, something you do? Divert all the attention to others so that no one might see beneath your surface?"
Verso smiled tightly, and looked down at the paving stones. It was frightening being so easily seen through. Either this particular gentleman was absurdly perceptive, or Verso was not as accomplished as he had thought at concealing his volatile inner emotions.
"Sometimes it is easier to stay in shallow water. Warmer. More pleasant." He explained, careful with his words. Each one felt like a heavy stone falling into a still pool which was unused to such deep ripples.
"It must be dull to swim the same waters day after day, even if they are... warm and pleasant." The man blushed ever so slightly, his eyes daringly not leaving Verso's. "Will you not wade out deeper with me?"
Those eyes — the colour of deep honey, of seasoned pine and warm earth. They contained naked attraction certainly, that was not the unusual thing. Because also present was a teasing, curious warmth and inexplicable kindness. The kindness was so fierce and so deep, it felt like it might burn Verso. He worked hard to still the slight tremor in his hands.
His own grey eyes, the colour of heavy storm clouds and soulless granite, probably conveyed only despair and self-loathing. Verso wrenched his gaze away, feeling tendrils of anxiousness creeping down his spine. He was finding it a little hard to breathe around this gentleman, and he wasn't sure why.
"I appreciate what you said earlier, about the efforts of the other young suitors. But I cannot help but feel their pursuit has very little to do with me." He paced a little, not knowing why he was admitting painful truths to a complete stranger. Those kind eyes were urging Verso to trust them. "Perhaps the reason I stay in shallow water... is that I too feel like an imposter."
"But... this is the Dessendre family home." The man's tone betrayed shock.
"Even more so, here." Verso said wistfully, looking around at the perfectly manicured gardens, the fine lights, the exquisite music drifting on the night breeze. The familiar wrenching sadness was starting to return, and he refused to give in to it tonight.
He breathed in through his teeth sharply, changing the subject. "I believe I still owe you a dance lesson?"
"Why do you wish to dance with... me?" He was still unsure of Verso's attentions.
Verso had in fact never wished to dance with anyone more than he had at this very moment.
"Because, I am a mere mortal and I do not question what the dance card tells me to do." He lied.
They stood smiling at each other.
"Very well, first we bow." The two men bowed deeply, Verso’s excessively flamboyant, just because he could. He felt an unfamiliar joy bubbling up inside, like water being raised from a deep well to irrigate a parched land.
"Then, um, you put your hand in mine." Verso offered his hand, and the gentleman in gold took it reverently.
"Now you move a little bit closer."
He brought the man's other hand up to rest at his own shoulder. It was surprisingly heavy, but he paid it no mind as they clasped their leading hands palm to palm. Their faces were suddenly close together and he saw that the man's hazel eyes were bright and round as new-minted coins behind his golden mask.
"Then, a simple box step: One, two, three. One, two, three. Good!"
"You are quite the teacher." The man murmured.
"And you are quite the pretend student."
The two young men stopped looking at their feet to gaze at each other, both caught in expressions resting somewhere in between puzzlement and foolish smiles.
The man abruptly stood on Verso's boot and stumbled. "Oh, putain, sorry."
"Do not worry! My sisters have done far worse!" he laughed easily. His toes might be bruised, but he was actually having fun. This was not the way these Society events usually happened for him.
“We continue.”
The Expeditioner's steps became more fluid, and Verso led him into another turn with ease. The man learned fast, if indeed he was telling the truth about not being able to dance in the first place. He'd even shut his lovely eyes.
"Mm, impressive.” Verso spoke softly, taking the chance to admire how the man’s silky brown curls perfectly framed his calm face. “Dancing already with your eyes closed."
The long-lashed eyes under the golden mask opened a sliver. There was something dreamy in them. "I am trying to remember this moment exactly... so that if I wish, I can escape here."
Verso's heart thumped in his chest.
"You are perhaps the most intriguing person I have ever met. If I cannot know your name,or where you live, however am I meant to call on you tomorrow?"
"That... will not be possible." He sounded genuinely regretful. Verso could not help but hold the man even tighter, feeling their bodies moving in perfect harmony.
"A dashing expeditioner in a gold mask, who can never be seen again." He whispered mournfully.
Verso moved in closer. Their parted lips were almost touching. Their hips were so close it was borderline indecent. He wanted so badly to kiss this man, this masked stranger, this intriguing anomaly—only, he knew so little about them. And they seemed reluctant to pursue anything further, for reasons that escaped him.
With a great amount of willpower, and against everything his body was screaming at him, Verso said in a strained whisper, "We should not."
"We should not, what?"
Merde, this impudent stranger would be the end of him.
He kissed him gently on the cheek instead, and impulsively removed one glove to kiss his hand. The man froze, checked his other hand was still gloved, and stared at Verso with an odd mixture of desire and fear. The soft skin under his lips was warm and stubbled, and he could smell a most unusual smoky cologne lingering on the man's wrist.
Verso's heart was in his throat.
"Please tell me your name." He simply had to know.
The ringing peal of a bell in the main house split the tension that had built between them, and they jumped apart. Another chimed close by in the gardens.
The gentleman in gold whirled to face him. "What does it mean?"
"Well... it is midnight. Time for everyone to reveal themselves—including you—at last." He smiled and reached to untie the ribbons at the side of the golden mask.
However the man stepped back, making sure his mask was still secure. Verso's heart sank.
"I-I must go. My friends will be looking for me."
"Please, do not leave!"
He hated how his voice whined. He felt like a child again, at boarding school saying goodbye to his father, betrayed and weeping. He was at Clea's wedding, watching her ride off in a carriage to the Duke's estate. And Julie. Julie had left him in the very same way, but she had not even looked back. Perhaps he was simply destined never to experience lasting love, the gods had deemed him unworthy of it.
The gentleman in gold turned to look back at Verso and his face softened.
The Expeditioner strode back up in two great strides and kissed Verso full on the mouth, lips soft and tongue hesitant. It was but a brief moment of stars and warmth and moonlight...
and then the man was gone, running back inside towards the main ballroom.
"Wait!"
The kiss burned on his lips, yet Verso didn't know the man's identity. He watched the brown curls retreat in utter despair. He had no address, no name, no lodgings to call upon.
And now he was gone forever.
Verso looked down at his hands, still tingling from the contact of their dance.
At least he still had the man's glove.
⊱────────⊱───── {⋅ ❖ ⋅}─────⊰────────⊰
If anyone were holding out hope that Verso Dessendre would take a spouse this season, this author should make it known that she does not wager it will happen.
But, believe what you might wish dear reader.
This author knows best that a small amount of make-believe often has the power to remake reality—to lift us up from the drudgery of a humdrum existence. With a little imagination the impossible seems possible, dreams seem tangible and yet, gentle readers, one must eventually
wake up.